


Chaotic

by beastieboys



Series: What Regular People Do [9]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Needles, Psychosis, Triggering Material, Violence, jeffershit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastieboys/pseuds/beastieboys
Summary: Nathan tries to deal with Warren's absence from his life by going about business as usual. But when business as usual involves drugs, violence, and psychosis, Nathan's safety attracts a daring pursuit.
Relationships: Warren Graham/Nathan Prescott
Series: What Regular People Do [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/352673
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	Chaotic

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE, BITCH! I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME.

Music blares in Nathan’s ears. It thumps against the walls of the natatorium and bounces back, creating an ungodly echo that only adds to the ambience of this party. It’s been dubbed _Second Coming_ by the Vortex club, for whatever reason, but the ring of it is nice enough to almost distract Nathan from the true motives behind this shindig.

Almost.

He hasn’t seen Jefferson yet, which adds equal parts anxiety and relief to his melting pot of emotions. Nathan hasn’t seen Warren, either, even though he _specifically_ invited him, despite the space they’ve been taking. Nathan’s hand shakes with the realization that he maybe, possibly, definitely invaded Warren’s space _and now he’s gonna break up with him and leave him just like everyone else oh God oh God--_

Victoria bumbles over to him, tripping over her heels, laughing at something someone must have said, unless she’s high, but Nathan didn’t order any weed for this party. _Fucking skaters trying to get in on his business._

“Hey Natey,” Victoria says, snorting at the name, “where’s the geek?”

“I don’t know.” Nathan replies, taking deep breaths because she _knows_ he hates that nickname. She only says it when she’s drunk. His fingers twitch, so Nathan scratches them against his pant leg to give them a space to fidget.

“Sad face. Well if you wanna stop standing around like an idiot--”

“I’m _hosting._ ”

“--We can dance.”

Nathan wants to pass, he needs to look for Warren, for _Jefferson,_ but he’d like the distraction. He sighs, shaking his hands, then holds one arm for Victoria to take. She leads him out of the VIP section and into the rest of the pool space, passing Courtney at the bar. She waves absentmindedly at the pair. 

When they reach a spot that’s mostly unoccupied but nowhere near the least popular kids at Blackwell, Victoria lets go of Nathan and throws her arms into the air. The deep house music pumps throughout the natatorium, through Nathan’s painfully sober ears, and back onto the walls. He shakes his shoulders back and forth to give the inebriated girl beside him the sense that he’s actively participating. His phone buzzes, and he digs in his pocket instinctually, picturing Warren’s face in his chaotic mind.

The text reads: _Sober her up._

It isn’t Warren, and Nathan’s already erratic heartbeat goes buckwild as he looks up from his phone, to Victoria, and past her, spotting Jefferson in the small crowd near the DJ. Jefferson nods slowly.

Nathan shoves his phone back in his pocket and runs a hand through his hair in feeble attempt to play it cool despite the fact that the walls are bleeding around him and the air is tight and hot as he inhales. 

Victoria places her arms around him, and on instinct he pushes her away from him with unintentional force, causing her to stumble backward and hit a rack of pool noodles. She yelps in pain, and fear flashes in her eyes for a brief moment before she stands and approaches Nathan again, otherwise disconnected from the reality of the boy before her. Nathan reels internally.

“It’s been that long since a girl’s touched you, Natey?” she giggles, reaching her arms out to wrap them around Nathan a second time. His phone buzzes again, and he pulls the phone from his pocket just enough to read the new text.

_Don’t mark up my model with your incessant chaos._

Nathan forces himself into the moment and into the touch, Jefferson’s eyes searing into his temple. He places his hands on Victoria’s waist and puts his head on her shoulder. He inhales her perfume, which smells the way flipping a stack of hundred dollar bills through one’s hand feels. There’s a comfort in it, and with it a faint reminder of the nights he dreamt of the curve of her back against his hands, the shine of her skin in the perfect lighting. Those fantasies are all but lost on him now; his nights are preoccupied with different notions of sexuality and sensual aestheticism.

Their dance doesn’t match the music, but it soothes Nathan, which riles him up with reminder of her fate, forcing him in a limbo of existence, like falling into a pit, slowly and endlessly. He swallows, forcing himself to be present, which is mostly an abstract concept to him, especially without Warren. 

Warren was reality. Warren was truth and justice. Warren was peace.

Nathan wants to peel away his skin until he’s nothing more than a pile on the wet floor. Every song that bounces around this room is one closer to ten thirty, when Nathan will leave the Vortex party and retrieve drugs from Frank, Frank who never asks questions, never cares. Every song is one closer to eleven, when Jefferson will gently, _courteously_ offer Victoria a ride home, perhaps lie about loving her, and drug her. 

Like a good little puppy, or a tortured minion, stuck between false relationships, Nathan steers Victoria away from the bar, rudely and brashly, like any other night, hiding the truth underneath an easy persona.

Victoria scoffs, but listens, and wanders to the VIP section with the alcohol wearing off, leaving Nathan alone at ten twenty-seven. A tornado swirls in his brain but his body is on autopilot. Muscle-memorized footsteps toward his truck, key in the ignition, a roadmap between his eyes as the sides of his face close in on him.

Cash, needles, drugs, done. 

In his truck, Nathan swallows his anti-psychosis pill dry. He scrapes his teeth against each other, fighting the near desperate urge to text Warren, to call him, to tell him everything or say nothing, to hear his breathing against the phone. What would Warren think if he knew?

Three shelves, static, three shelves, didn’t help, he didn’t help, he was watching his life go by like a television show or a video game, speaking when it was his turn, when the dialogue relied on his line. He was responsible for the torture of three shelves. Murder of one binder, stained with an absence where his memory was supposed to be. 

Nathan almost crashes his truck against a tree as he pulls up to the Prescott barn. The red sickens him, makes his skin crawl. Blue is his favorite color. Blue. Red is Prescott, ambient buzzing in a dark corner, developing photographs and the smell of bleach. Blue is Nathan. Nathan is blue. _Nathan is red but he wants to be blue--_

He hops out of his truck, pulls the paper bag from the side of the door, and slams the door shut. He locks his truck once, twice, three times, and makes his way into the rotting barn. Once inside, he pulls the key from a pocket inside his _red red red_ jacket and unlocks the padlock hiding the Dark Room away. He lifts the cover and trots downstairs.

Nathan keys in the code, unlocks the door, and slips inside, closing it behind him. The Dark Room is the same as always, the bunker half still untouched, other than a few pieces of evidence intentionally placed to incriminate Nathan. He’s tried to throw them away, rip them to shreds and bury them behind the barn outside, but Jefferson just prints out a new copy.

The paper bag crinkles as Nathan sets it down on the metal cart near the lights and backdrop. He pulls out the vials of anesthetic. He takes a deep breath and takes out a few clean syringes, his body convulsing, his mind throbbing, and he drops them on the table as quickly as he can. He’s not stupid. He knows where these will end up when it’s all over and done with. Finally, he pulls an extra vial, a rare purchase because Jefferson’s only used it once. Nathan crumples the paper bag and walks to the trash to toss it. He hears a voice coming from the stairs, so he runs to his cabinet and pulls the doors shut from the inside. He sits with his knees up in the small space, rocking slightly back and forth, fiddling with his phone. There’s no service on purpose. 

Outside the cabinet, the vault door unlocks and opens, and Nathan recognizes Jefferson’s muffled voice and a pair and a half of footsteps on the cold floor.

“Welcome to my studio, Victoria,” he says, and Nathan recognizes the “half-footsteps” to be Victoria’s feet as they drag along the floor. 

There’s silence afterward, save for the movement of bodies, the sharp sound of duct tape, and a few quiet clinks of glass. Nathan stares ahead of him at the metal cabinet, shrouded in darkness. The only light in his space is through the cracks of the hinges. 

_Click._

“So beautiful,” Jefferson says.

_Click._

“Look at me, Victoria.”

_Click._

“The emotion in your eyes is divine.”

_Click. Click. Click. Click._

Nathan bangs his head against the cabinet door in agony. His best friend, corrupted by his mentor…

Footsteps approach the cabinet. A fist pounds against the outside where Nathan is banging his head.

“Rott, I need you quiet in there. You will have your turn soon enough.”

Nathan pulls away and sobs. _This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong._

No, Jefferson said it’s art, _it’s art, it’s art, suffering is art,_ Nathan knows that. Nathan’s captured it. Nathan is macabre, his passion is decadence, that’s what Jefferson does, and Jefferson takes care of him. That’s what Jefferson says. _His dad doesn’t love him so Jefferson takes care of him._

_Click._

“Wh-where am I?” a soft voice asks, “Mark? Mr. Jefferson? Is that you?”

Nathan’s heart drops. Victoria sounds so small, so confused. 

“Hello there, Victoria. I see I’ve invaded your dreams, huh? You just can’t live without me.” Jefferson chuckles, and the metal cart squeaks. 

“I try to stop myself but I--” Victoria’s voice drifts away, back into a zombie daze.

Nathan’s fists shake. He has to stop this. This isn’t art, this is torture. What would Warren think?

Nathan stands from the bottom of the cabinet and shoves himself into the Dark Room. 

“Jefferson, you son of a bitch, you can’t do this, don’t touch her!” Nathan yells, storming to where Mark stands with his camera.

“Nathan, calm down, calm down. She’s safe, see?” Mark gestures to Victoria, whose eyes flutter open and closed, stuck between two worlds.

Nathan slows. He looks at Victoria. She’s not naked, her clothes aren’t torn, she doesn’t seem to be in pain. She’s just sleepy and disoriented. Is that so bad? Is that not art?

“That’s it, Nathan, everything’s okay.” Jefferson puts a hand on Nathan’s shoulder, encouraging him to take deep breaths. 

Nathan inhales, and exhales, and inhales, and there’s a prick in his neck. And his eyes flutter. 

“Jefferson, you piece of--” Nathan fades away with his words caught between his lips.

He blinks a few times. Blurry, the world is out of focus, and Nathan tries again and again to see, until a foggy image emerges before him. He tries to move, but his arms are held against the wall by multiple strips of duct tape. He tries his legs, only to discover they, too, are bound to the wall. 

Jefferson approaches out of the corner of his eyes, his image shaking as Nathan’s barely capable brain processes the situation.

“You’ve got to stop trying to sabotage our photoshoots,” Jefferson says, his voice even, his tone calm.

“I can’t let you do this anymore,” Nathan mumbles, his lip quivering slightly.

Jefferson shakes his head, the movement going frame-by-frame in Nathan’s vision. “Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, when will you understand?”

Jefferson steps forward, holding something in his hand.

“I’m not the one doing this to those poor girls,” Jefferson continues, “You are.”

“Bullshit!” Nathan yells.

Jefferson places one hand on Nathan’s stomach and unbuttons his jacket. He lifts his sweater, his t-shirt, and his undershirt to reveal his scarred abdomen. 

“Nathan, you’ve really got to stop doing this to yourself.” Jefferson chides.

“ _Don’t fucking touch me!_ I know I’m not doing this to myself!”

“Yes you do,” Jefferson says, bringing his other hand to Nathan’s stomach. A cold point near his belly button causes Nathan’s skin to erupt in goosebumps. 

“You do all of this,” Jefferson states, tapping the point on Nathan’s abdomen. “You hurt these poor girls, and then you can’t take it, and you hurt yourself. You’ve done it so many times. I can’t believe you don’t remember!”

“This is slander! I’m not hurting anyone! I never want to hurt anyone!”

“But you are,” Jefferson says. “You’re a monster.”

Jefferson drags the point down Nathan’s skin from his bellybutton to just above his belt, digging in to scratch the surface. Nathan wails. 

“You torture your classmates, even killed one of them, and you punish yourself with your leftover syringes, don’t you, Nathan?”

“No!” Nathan screams, and Jefferson scratches down Nathan’s stomach again.

“Sh sh sh, don’t want to wake Victoria. You know what happens if she wakes up.”

Nathan whimpers, “D-don’t hurt her.”

“What don’t you understand, Prescott? You’re the one hurting these innocent girls! Your DNA is all over this place! You’ve left notes and clothes and fingerprints laying around, so _carelessly_.”

Jefferson scrapes the syringe needle down Nathan’s stomach again, and Nathan bites his lip, whimpering. The pain is numbed by the anesthetic, but the sensation is uncomfortable and the trauma from waking up to a burning and bleeding abdomen is enough to make him feel the pain preemptively.

“This is all your fault.” Jefferson smiles.

A loud _bang_ echoes through the room, its source unknown. Jefferson pauses, turning to face Victoria, then the door, which is open, unhinged, and smoking.

“Get your fucking hands off of him, motherfucker!” A voice yells. 

Jefferson slides to the wall beside Nathan and holds the syringe to his throat. Nathan swallows against the pressure of the needle. Out of the smoke stands Warren Graham, followed by Max Caulfield and Chloe Price, both of whom are holding a few jars and soda cans.

“Listen to me, Nancy Drews, there’s a lethal dose of morphine in this syringe,” Jefferson says, tapping the needle against Nathan’s throat, “I will stick it in him before you can even say ‘cheese’.”

“The fuck you will!” Chloe yells, pulling a gun from behind her back.

“Always take the shot,” Max murmurs.

Chloe aims the gun at Mark Jefferson and pulls the trigger. The bullet flies into Jefferson’s shoulder, and he drops the syringe as he grips at the wound.

“You fucking kids!” Jefferson growls. Warren rushes to Jefferson and Nathan, and without even making eye contact with Nathan, he grabs Jefferson by the collar of his shirt. 

Max runs to Nathan as Chloe stands in place, muttering “holy shit, holy shit,” under her breath. Max digs her nails under the grip of the duct tape and struggles to pull Nathan free.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Let go of me!” Jefferson snaps at Warren, who holds his fist in the air.

“I’m Warren. Fucking. Graham!” Warren yells and connects his fist to Jefferson’s face.

Everything is a whirlwind for Nathan. Chloe rushes over to help Max unattach him from the wall, the sounds of their struggle overshadowed by the rhythmic thump of Warren’s fist against Jefferson’s face.

“You,” _punch,_ “Hurt,” _punch,_ “My,” _punch,_ “Boyfriend!”

“I get it, kid!” Jefferson spits, blood dripping from his mouth. “The girl already shot me. You don’t have to go all macho on--”

Warren drops Jefferson to the ground and kicks him. Kicks and kicks and kicks until he tires out and Jefferson is holding back tears. Max loosens the last strip of duct tape and Nathan falls to the floor, pushing himself up to his feet. 

Jefferson laughs, “What’s your plan now? You beat me up. Who do you think they’ll believe when I show the cops photos of Nathan in here, along with his stuff I _found?_ Who will they believe since I’m the one shot and bruised?”

“You’d be surprised, bitch,” Chloe replies, crossing her arms, “It’s almost like we already thought of that.”

Nathan rubs at his wrists, then swims through the thick water of anesthesia to the studio where Victoria lays on the couch, unconscious. He wants to touch her, wake her, tell her everything is okay, but he feels a warm and gentle hand on his shoulder. He turns to see Warren.

“I’d let her be, for now. The paramedics will help.”

Nathan glances between Warren’s eyes, which are the only clear thing in this swirling room, the only reality in this movie scene. He falls into Warren’s arms and hugs him, holds onto him for dear life, still affected by the anesthesia and the trauma and the duct tape still ghosting his wrists and ankles.

At that moment, dozens of footsteps rumble from above the dark room. They fill the barn and descend the stairs. David Madsen and a group of police officers file into the dark room, approaching the bruised and bleeding Jefferson. 

“Put your hands up, asshole,” David commands. Chloe makes eye contact with her step-fucker and gives him a reluctant but genuine thumbs-up.

“I can’t do that, David. Your step-daughter shot me in the shoulder, and I’m losing feeling in my arm.”

“Shut the fuck up, _Mark,_ ” Chloe retorts as two officers pick Jefferson up by his waist and grab him under his arms. 

“Stop! It’s not me! Those fucking kids assaulted me! Nathan Prescott is guilty!”

The police carry Jefferson up the stairs, and David approaches the couch to lift Victoria into his arms. 

“She’ll be safe, Prescott,” David says.

Nathan pulls himself from Warren’s arms, swaying from lack of balance, and nods. “Th-thank you,” he stutters.

David carries Victoria like a sleeping child out of the dark room and up the stairs. Nathan collapses onto the couch and sobs. 

He wants to believe this is real and not another scenario imaginged in his head, but as usual, it must be too good to be true. He grips his hair and pulls, shutting his eyes tightly, whimpering. “You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not--”

“Nate,” Warren says, crouching until his eyes are level with Nathan’s own, still squeezed shut. “I’m real. You’re safe.”

Nathan peeks out of one eye to spy Warren’s face, slightly dirtied by splatters of Jefferson’s blood, and realizes that he is not still in the cabinet. This is not a coping fantasy. He opens his other eye, then pushes himself with feeble arms until he is upright on the couch. Warren looks up at him from his crouched position. Behind him, Max and Chloe peruse the shelves of red binders. 

“How did you find me?” Nathan asks, almost inaudible.

“I took a page out of your book, Prescott,” Warren replies, smiling sheepishly.

“What?”

“I followed you, moron. Kept tabs and shit. For the record, did _not_ enjoy it.”

Nathan snorts, diverting his eyes from the powerful image of Warren, trying to process the situation.

“What the fuck!” Chloe shouts, “Jeffershit killed Rachel? This can’t be real, tell me this isn’t real, Prescott.”

Nathan’s heart skips a beat, because _he did, he did, Jefferson said he did._

“I killed her,” Nathan admits. A wave of catharsis washes over him.

“You fucking _what?_ ” Chloe screams, stomping over to him on the couch, almost stepping on Warren in the process.

“Wait Chloe, look,” Max says, approaching her with the binder labeled ‘Rachel,’ “Nathan’s in this photo. There’s no way he could have done it. Look at his eyes.”

Chloe snatches the binder from Max’s hands and inspects it, bringing it closer to her face. Her face drops and her eyes soften, a rare sight, and she gazes at Nathan. His head is spinning just trying to keep up.

“Shit, man, I--I don’t even know what to say.”

“Maybe it’s best you two take all that shit and turn it in to the cops,” Warren suggests, his voice firm. “Maybe give Nathan and I some time to recover.”

Max nods and takes Chloe by her arm, leading her back to the binders. They collect as many as they can carry and leave the dark room.

Warren stands from the floor, then he sits on the couch beside Nathan, whose ears are ringing and chest is thumping with a caged heart.

“Are you okay?” Warren asks, then adds, “Dumb question.”

Nathan laughs a little, then he winces as he notices the effects of the anesthesia wearing off. His stomach starts to sting.

“You lied to me,” Warren says, his voice soft, but stern. “You said you made those marks yourself.”

“Of course I fucking lied,” Nathan replies, “I didn’t want to fuck up the only good thing in my life with years of trauma.”

Warren is quiet for a moment. “You didn’t.”

“What?”

“You didn’t fuck it up. I just wish I could have helped you before it came to this.”

Warren slides his hands under Nathan’s thighs and back and picks him up the same way David carried Victoria out. Nathan is weightless under his layers of clothing, making it easy for Warren to carry him out of the dark room and up the stairs. The gentle rock of Warren’s gait as he carries him puts Nathan’s mind at ease.

He wakes up in a hospital bed. Nathan can’t actually remember the last time he had been to an actual hospital for a medical emergency. It’s usually private doctors and EMTs paid in cash. On instinct, Nathan reaches to his stomach to find it wrapped in an ace bandage. His eyes adjust to see Warren sitting in a chair, gazing out the window.

 _Warren,_ pretty, sweet, kind Warren. A good fuck and a tough fighter. His Warren. Long, thick brown hair that feels like the smell of violets, eyes that see through Nathan, see the real Nathan, and never judges, always listens.

“Warren,” Nathan says, straining his voice. Warren turns and his face lights up. He approaches the bed.

“How ya doing, champ?” Warren asks.

“Don’t know, just woke up.”

“Oh, right.”

Nathan holds out his hand, still connected to an IV, and Warren sandwiches it with his own. 

“I-I’m not worth all this,” Nathan says, “I still hurt those girls, I still read your diary.”

“You really think I fucking care about my diary anymore?” Warren asks, blowing air from his nose. “I’m just thankful you’re alive.”

Nathan stares into his lap, silent, processing.

“Your life is ‘hella’ chaotic,” Warren says, placing a hand under Nathan’s chin. “I knew that since day one. But I want to be with you, and I really don’t scare that easily.”

Warren pulls Nathan’s head to face him and puts his thumb on Nathan’s bottom lip. 

“I wish you had let me tell you instead of reading it in my diary, but I do love you. I really love you, Nathan Prescott.”

Nathan’s mouth curls into a smile. “I love you too, Warren Graham.”

Warren leans down and kisses Nathan, his lips soft and warm, honey on toast, a cat on a windowsill. Nathan melts into the kiss, reaching his untethered hand around to thread his fingers through Warren’s hair. They pull away, each breathless and starry-eyed.

“Now hurry up and get better, so you can fuck me again,” Warren says.

“Wow, it’s a miracle!” Nathan exclaims, “I’m cured!”

Warren punches Nathan lightly in the arm, laughing, then kisses him again. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!  
> Yes, it's been FOUR YEARS since I touched this. Yes, I left all of you hanging for four fucking years. I am in college now. I'm an adult holy crap.  
> [ I actually write romance fiction for money now.](http://allahorne.com) Wow. Adult life.  
> ANYWAY!  
> There is still one more installment of WRPD after this. PLUS i brought back my [tumblr](http://prettyboyprescott.tumblr.com) which is pretty empty rn but that's ok bc it won't be soon enough!  
> And no, it won't take me four years to post the last piece. It'll be like, a month tops. 
> 
> MOST OF ALL,  
> I want to thank EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU who left comments on my work over the years. Especially the couple of you who were like "I'm still reading this in 2019." YOU ARE THE REAL EVERYDAY HEROES!
> 
> Anyway I love you all. I'll probably write more LiS after this series finishes. Kinda wanna explore Warren....


End file.
